


Careless

by unsettled



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Community: sherlockkink, Gunplay, M/M, Non Consensual, Reichenbach Falls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-30
Updated: 2010-05-30
Packaged: 2017-10-09 19:15:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/90634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If not for one cab ride…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Careless

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for this prompt at the kink meme: _Watson fetches a cab and finds himself facing Professor Moriarty when he's seated inside. Cue to Moriarty fucking with Watson's head and torturing him via subtle unwanted sexual advances (or you can make them not so subtle, if you want). Bonus points if when Watson gets back to Baker Street afterward, he tries to hide what happened from Holmes, but Holmes can tell something's wrong and finds out (or he deduces it-- perhaps Moriarty has left a *ahem* mark on Watson for him to see). And of course, Holmes doesn't take it well._

"Dr. Watson?"

Watson turns, startled, as he he comes out of his club. "Yes?"

"You are Dr. Watson?" the other man asks, and Watson nods in reply. "I've a message for you."

"A message…" He tears it open, perhaps Holmes needs something, or a patient. _I'd like to speak with you concerning Mr. Holmes. There's a cab waiting across the street; we may discuss this matter on your way to Baker Street._ There's no signature, and the hand writing isn't Holmes', but that doesn't mean much; he is well able to disguise it.

He hesitates for a moment, but there's a reason he's a confirmed gambler, more than one reason he stays with Holmes.

"221 Baker Street," Watson tells the cab driver, and settles across from the other passenger.

He waits for the man behind the newspaper to speak. "Dr. Watson," and there's nothing familiar about the voice.

"You have the advantage of me," he replies, and everything about this situation is wrong, screams of danger, maybe he made the wrong decisions after all, but he's not about to jump out of a moving cab without good cause.

"Mm," and he doesn't recognize the face. "We have a mutual acquaintance, I believe. Surely Sherlock has mentioned me?"

And that easy familiarity makes Watson's skin crawl. "Moriarty," he breathes, startled, and his hands are itching to damage the man, but before he can act, there's a whip of motion, a blur that ends with his hands half up, frozen, as he tries not to swallow against the warmed metal of a gun. Moriarty is watching him, lazily, like he has no true interest in the outcome of this little game, and Watson thinks, if he can just lunge fast enough…

"Do not attempt it," and Watson's skin freezes at the sound of the hammer cocking back, clicking against the shivering muscles of his throat. "Drop it," and his cane clatters to the floor of the carriage. "Hands…there, on the edge, yes, and don't move them." Watson's hands find the edge of his seat, spread on either side, fingers denting the cushioning.

Moriarty regards him from across the carriage, such a short distance. "One would think," he says, conversationally, "that Holmes would learn from his past mistakes. He was outmatched the last time he went up against me; he will be again. Tell me, doctor, is he always so careless?" Watson doesn't have a clue what Moriarty is talking about, but he's not about to show it.

"I suppose, to the untrained eye, Holmes' methods might seem so, but I have found he is anything but," and it is a snarled insult that serves only to amuse Moriarty.

"I disagree; he is very careless, and will have to learn to take better care of what he claims as his." A shift, abrupt, "He is to leave his current case to the Yard."

Watson snorts. "He has already accepted it; he's not about to let it go."

"Then you must convince him," and it is steel under velvet, cool, hard, unyielding.

"I have never been able to convince him to leave things be," Watson replies, and he's not bitter about it; he's _not_.

"Before, however, you had no reason as compelling as this to dissuade him. Convince him to leave the case alone, or I will have to have him killed."

Watson freezes, and he chokes out, "He will not listen; once he is on the case, he will not be swayed. It is no good trying."

Moriarty is silent, perhaps sensing the truth of his words, and Watson knows it is not enough. "Then I will have to convince him myself," Moriarty says, and reaches his free hand forward, black gloved fingers brushing Watson's face, the thumb sliding over his bottom lip in a cruel parody of affection. Watson draws his breath in sharply, stunned, and is abruptly furious that this man would attempt to take such liberties. He makes a sound, something between a growl and a snarl, and his hands come up, off the seat, ready to tear into the other man. He is reaching for him, and suddenly he cannot breath, bright motes obscuring his vision, and dimly he is aware that the gun at his throat is buried deep in the base of his jaw, jumping against every beat of his pulse, cutting off air and blood and words. "Don't," Moriarty says, and it's not quite a command; simply a suggestion, a word of advice to the wise. Don't, or you will suffer. You will suffer, and then others will suffer more.

Watson leans back, hoping for a moment to doge the barrel, but Moriarty leans with him, tracking him, and now he is pined. There is nothing he can do, nothing salvageable of this situation, and he closes his eyes. Closes his eyes, lowers his hands to the seat, and opens his mouth.

Moriarty doesn't give him a chance to speak. "Will it convince Holmes, you think, to know that if he does not stand aside, we will strike you down first?" His hand drops from Watson's face, drops to rest at the juncture of his legs, and Watson draws a shocked, furious breath. "Not a word," Moriarty tells him, and he bites his lip as the professor draws his fingers along Watson's belt, down the quivering skin of his abdomen, settling firm and cool against his cock. Watson cannot look, is wishing that he was anywhere but here, anywhere, and Moriarty's face is as passionless and uninvolved as if he was giving a lecture on the mathematics of intersecting lines. He is clinical in his handling, and Watson shouldn't be surprised when his body responds; he's a doctor, he knows how the body reacts, but it doesn't stop him from jerking, his hands almost loosening from the seat, almost striking out. They stay in place, trembling against the wood, and his mind is shuddering, buckling under the conflict of desire and disgust and terror.

Moriarty moves closer, the gun tilting his head back, back, further, until he is drawn up against the side of the cab, back painfully arched in an effort to keep breathing, air huffing in short bursts through his open mouth. He is shaking from reaction and the effort of keeping himself so tautly drawn, and Moriarty leans forward and settles his teeth just above the hollow of his collarbones, sharp against tendons and trachea, and Watson finds himself moaning despite everything, appalled at himself.

The cab rattles to a halt, and Moriarty is gone, settled deep into the shadows of the other side of the cab, leaving Watson hovering on the brink of orgasm, gasping and trying to fasten his trousers before anyone can notice. The cabbie bangs on the top of the cab and Watson jumps, startled, on edge, and escapes while he can. He stands, flushed, in the dying light of London evening, and Moriarty calls after him.

"Don't forget the message. And a word of advice to Holmes; he should be more mindful of the things he claims." The cab is gone, and Watson didn't even pay…his mind is whirling, his appearance a mess, and he thinks with a groan that there is no possible way he can hide this from Holmes. He'll know the second Watson walks in, knows already if he is watching the street as he sometimes does. There is nothing he can do about it now but try to deflect the worst of it; he rings the bell and greets Mrs. Hudson as though nothing was wrong, but his feet drag up the stairs.

"Watson! What timing! I have just distilled a most remarkable compound, and with a few moments more work I shall have something quite spectacular to show you…" and Watson could fall over with relief; instead, he sinks into his chair to listen as Holmes prattles on about some complicated chemistry experiment, far over his head, and thank god for delicate experiments. Holmes hasn't looked away from his beakers once, and Watson is grateful for the chance to gather his thoughts. He closes his eyes, lets the familiar sound of Holmes' voice, animated with the thrill of discovery, wash over him. Holmes is the antidote to his cab ride, enough to push all the thoughts whirling round his head aside. He smiles, and becomes suddenly aware of the silence.

He opens his eyes, and Holmes is staring at him, his eyes very wide and his face very still and not paying any attention to his experiment at all. "Watson," he says, and then, nothing, as though he cannot find the words.

Watson thinks he knows what Holmes is trying to say, but he tries not to. "Holmes. Will that explode if you don't do something soon?"

Holmes glances down at the vial in his hand, almost as if confused by its presence. He sets it aside, carelessly, and again, "Watson," he says. "What happened on the way here?"

Everything around him freezes, and Watson's not going to say, not going to bring this out into the light, not going to tell Holmes, but he has a horrible, foreboding feeling that Holmes doesn't need to be told; that he will drag it out from his silences alone, and that would almost be worse. That would be worse, and he resigns himself to speaking. "I ran into a friend of ours." He smiles, a mocking twist of lips. "Moriarty. Professor Moriarty."

Holmes sits down, quite suddenly, and "How?" he breathes, and Watson thinks it is quite strange to be the one with all the answers for once.

"He was in my cab. We had…we had an interesting conversation. He wants you off the case. Badly."

"What did he do?"

"Nothing." Holmes' expression is disbelieving, and Watson repeats himself. "Nothing," and clears his throat, feeling the skin burn at the base, and keeps his head ducked low.

Holmes expression has gone quite brittle, and he rises without a word, rises and walks to Watson, and raises his chin with one gentle finger. _Blast_, Watson thinks, but it only makes it worse to resist, and Holmes' hand is trembling against his jaw. "What did he do?" and it is harsh, anguished. Watson cannot let him think the worst, and his hand catches Holmes' wrist.

"Nothing," he repeats, eyes meeting Holmes'. "I am fine. Truly." His voice falters, and then he whispers, apologetic, "He wanted to send a message. He said," and Watson swallows as Holmes' fingers slide down his throat to rest against the lurid mark, "He said, take better of care of what you claim."

Holmes' fingers twitch against the mark, and he expels his breath in a shocked curse. Then, quietly, a simple as stating the year or the weather, he says, "I am going to kill him," and it is a promise, it is a vow, it is a fact.

Watson's hand tightens on Holmes' wrist. "No. Do not say that. Do not turn it into, into something so serious. Let it go," he pleads, and knows even as he speaks that there is nothing he can say to sway Holmes.

Holmes silences him in the most effective manner; his lips covering Watson's, his hands burning away the remainder of Moriarty's touch. He is gentle and slow and careful, until Watson is close to begging him for more, but he is aware of what Holmes is doing; he is laying claim to every inch of Watson's skin, is binding him tighter with every kiss and touch and breath, is pledging to take more care in the future. What he claims is his responsibility, and will not be careless of it again. Watson gives in to Holmes' determination, but knows Holmes well enough that he will not take advantage of it; he will not be caught off guard again.

*

And yet. And yet, when there is mist mixing with tears on his face, and the thunder of his heart is blotting out the thunder of the falls, Watson knows they have both broken their promises. He stares unseeing across the callous beauty of the mountains and wonders how differently things might have gone if not for one cab ride.


End file.
